


Death Curl

by marxeism



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hospitals, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Injury, Maybe - Freeform, Neurotransmitter blockage, Not Happy, Peter Parker Pity Party, Peter Parker in pain, Peter Parker is pure, Peter in pain, Possibly terminal illnesses, Protective Tony Stark, Read at Your Own Risk, Sick Peter, Stress, This is not cheerful, Violence, Worried Tony, brief mentions of other things, but he's also a little shit, but he's also in pain, description of medical procedures, protective may parker, this is not feel-good, worried may, you would be right to worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:17:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12146496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marxeism/pseuds/marxeism
Summary: Peter becoming sick is cause enough to worry. Peter losing control of his mind and body are worse. Peter being inflicted by a disease that nobody can identify and that certainly isn't human in nature is downright terrifying. He's not ready to die."When most tarantulas die, they don’t flop onto their backs as many believe, or just stop what they are doing and die in a normal legs spread position. In the majority of instances, their legs curl beneath them in a very unmistakable position, one that hobbyists refer to as a “death curl”." -A Tarantula Keeper's Journal





	1. Chapter 1

 

The fist connects to Peter’s face with shocking force, sending the young vigilante careening backwards into a pile of garbage. He lands, sprawled among the waste of an overfilled alleyway dumpster. It’s soft and wet and the smell is reminiscent of that one time MJ’s miniature poodle mix had diarrhea in Peter’s Vans. 

It’s thoroughly disgusting and Peter can feel the thick blood running down his chin underneath his mask. His nose is probably broken, and it’s tender, but Peter’s definitely had worse. Either way, he doesn’t have the luxury or the time to nurse his injuries when there’s a gun being fired inches above his head. 

His eyes widen and he rolls out of the bullet’s path without a moment to spare. It hits him right above the ear. It’s hot and he can feel the skin splitting open and the mask tearing, but Karen is quick to reassure him it’s just a surface wound.

_ “You have a superficial graze on the side of your scalp,”  _ She informs him,  _ “The wound is relatively minor and not life threatening, although I recommend you abandon any physically intensive activity before blood loss inhibits your ability to fight.” _

“Thanks, Karen.” He’s not going to abandon anything. Peter is a fighter, and he finishes what he starts. He snatches the gun before the guy can react, and throws it in with the garbage. 

Already, there are three or four men webbed up in varying parts of the alleyway. They had been threatening a girl barely older than Peter himself, holding the gun to her head while they told her to strip. 

The girl is long gone, she had run the moment Spider-Man dropped in, hopefully headed towards a police station or a busier street. The man that Peter is fighting now is the last guy standing, the ringleader. 

“You know what’s sexier than guns and harassment?” Peter asks, as he prepares himself for a high kick towards the guy’s face. He’s going to make contact the moment he says “Consent,” but instead he finds his left leg twitching. 

It’s completely unexpected, and the leg collapses under him. For obvious reasons, the kick doesn’t land it’s mark. Instead, Peter’s left on his probably-bruised tailbone, as his left leg continues to kick without him commanding it to. 

He needs potassium- he’s never spasmed like this before and it’s entirely uncomfortable, but it’s not enough to keep him from standing back up. 

And then, while he’s still trying to gain control of the seizing limb, the guy is lunging for him again. This time he’s holding a knife, and Peter is just a little bit too slow. 

The blade pierces his shoulder. It doesn’t go far- he can feel it scraping between his ribs and his clavicle without enough force to punch through. Peter probably has way more experience with stab wounds than any fifteen year old should, but it means that he knows he’ll be okay. His shoulder will hurt like hell for a few days, but it’s not deep and he won’t bleed out, so that’s all fine. 

He shouldn’t be losing a fight though, not against some low-level jackasses. But he’s starting to feel lightheaded and he’s bleeding too fast, and he has to end it. It takes one well-aimed hit to the groin to make the guy drop. He webs the last man up, and leaves a note for the police, trying to ignore the splattering of blood on paper. 

Man, he’s dizzy. He needs to patch himself up, but if he goes to Mr. Stark, the man’ll call Aunt May. If he crawls in through his best friend’s window, Ned is going to freak out. And Ned freaking out is almost as bad as May freaking out, so Peter can’t go there either. It’s not bad enough that he has to break into MJ’s apartment and reveal his secret to her, so Peter really has no choice but to get himself home.

Swinging around is surprisingly painful, but then again there’s a stab wound in his chest. He grits his teeth and fights through it, ultimately landing next to his unlocked bedroom window with blood matting his hair and running down his side. 

He has a first aid kit hidden under his bed, he’d learned how to use it early on in his career. The internet is insanely useful, and he still directs himself with YouTube videos when he’s out of practice in stitching. 

He can’t stay in his room for this one though, he’s got to stitch up his own head, and there’s no way he can see that without a mirror. There’s no sign of May when he sneaks into the kitchen to grab paper towels, and there’s none when he locks himself in the bathroom. 

“Ouch…” Peter hisses, more at the sight than the actual pain. It’s like somebody drew a quick, messy line in marker on the side of his head. The wound itself is ugly, raised and bumpy and dark red, but the surrounding area is worse. Clumps of his hair have been pulled out, and the bruising is colorful and large. There’s way more blood than he thought there would be, and it’s left a wide trail around and behind his ear, to his shoulder. 

He’s sure it looks way worse than it actually is. Granted, it looks pretty bad. Peter grabs a washcloth, pours some isopropyl alcohol, and dabs at the wound. It stings, but by the time he’s done, it looks so much better. It’s probably only a centimeter or two thick, and it’s already begun scabbing over. 

Which is really good. He won’t need to stitch it up after all. Gingerly, Peter rubs a dollop of neosporin over and around his temple. The bandage won’t adhere to his hair, so he has to grab a pair of scissors and trim it short. It’s not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world either. He’ll just have to wear a hat for a couple weeks. 

The stab wound on his shoulder is way deeper. That one is definitely going to need some assistance. Peter, the wimp that he is, winces every time he pierces his own skin with the thin needle. This one isn’t long, just deep, and Peter closes it with only three sutures. 

The rest of it is simple bruising and scrapes; superficial injuries that will probably be faded by morning. 

All together, it’s not the worst night he’s ever had. It’s definitely not the best, and he certainly does not want to be awake at three in the morning on a Monday, but the vigilante life does require some trade-offs. He sets the alarm on his phone to six and crawls under his blankets. 

He can feel his own blood staining the pillow as he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't exactly like Art Of Pain, but I can promise regular updates on Thursdays. While AoP was fun to right and I could post everyday, I am in school again, so that's not really a possibility for me anymore. 
> 
> The main thing I feel I should point out is that illness does not come all at once, or, at least, not most of the time. We've begun seeing symptoms, but that doesn't mean Peter's going to fall deathly ill and go into a coma or whatever within a single day. Please keep that in mind while you read. 
> 
> After writing something with so much physical action, it's somewhat difficult to write something where the struggle is almost completely internal.

“Man, you look awful,” Is the first thing MJ tells him once they’ve sat for lunch. She’s tearing apart her sandwich, eating it layer by layer. Peter still thinks it’s weird, but they all have their quirks. Ned watches bad cartoons, MJ eats sandwiches incorrectly, and Peter is Spider-Man. So, he never says anything because they all have slightly abnormal tendencies. 

“Thanks,” Peter replies dryly. He knows that there are bags under his eyes, knows that the hair peaking out of his  _ Iron Man _ beanie is oily, but he doesn’t need her to point that out to him. 

“Sorry, Peter, but you kind of do,” Ned pitches in. MJ shrugs, smirking slightly as if to say  _ ‘It’s not my fault I’m right.’ _

Peter rolls his eyes, “Seriously guys, thanks for your concern, but I’m fine.” Neither MJ nor Ned look incredibly convinced, but she peels the avocado off of her bread, and Ned munches on a handful of chips. 

“Anyways...” Peter shifts uncomfortably, “What did you guys do over the weekend?”

“I finally finished that Lego Avengers set!” Ned takes the bait easily, and Peter sighs in relief. MJ is still very clearly suspicious, but she can tell that he doesn’t want to talk about his personal wellbeing. Besides, what is he supposed to tell them?  _ Yeah, I got shot in the head and then stabbed, but it’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise! _ Maybe not. 

Ned’s speaking in detail about his  _ Battle of New York _ scene, and how that particular set isn’t sold in the United States anymore, because Steve Rogers is a war criminal, or whatever. When he finally runs out of things to say, MJ cuts in. 

“There was a literary festival in Manhattan,” She says, “I went with my dad, probably spent half of my savings, but it was definitely worth it.” MJ pats the fat canvas bag next to her, and that’s the end of that conversation.

“You don’t have any lunch,” Ned says, because Ned always notices the things that have to do with food, “Do you want some of mine? I’ve got pretzels, and you can have part of my cookie.”

“That sounds awesome man, thanks, but I’m not hungry right now. Maybe I’ll eat something when I get home.” They both know that Peter’s an awful liar. MJ rolls her eyes, she’s the one to call him out on it. 

“You’ve got to eat something, Peter.” She digs around in her paper lunch bag, pulling out a single red apple. “We’re all going to sit here until you finish this.” She places it in front of him. 

He should be grateful to have such good friends, but Peter really doesn’t want to eat. He’s not hungry, and there’s a nauseous lump in his throat when he thinks about swallowing a bite. MJ’s glaring at him though, and there’s no way she’s going to let him go until he satisfies her commands. 

With a resentful sigh, he bites down. It’s crunchy, and sour, and it feels all dry and wrong going down his throat. Peter coughs, it feels like the piece of apple is stuck somewhere within his neck. He tries not to gag while MJ shoots him a pointed look. 

“I’m cool!” He gasps, after a few seconds, “Completely fine! Totally great, dude! You don’t need to look at me like that. I’m fine, I swear.” There’s a single bit missing from the fruit and Peter already feels the bile rising in his chest. 

It feels awful, and although Peter can agree that this is unusual and there’s something weird going on, he still finds himself slightly annoyed at his friend. 

“Seriously,” He asks MJ, “Do I have to eat the entire thing? Why isn’t it okay for me to just wait for dinner?” Under her sharp gaze, he nibbles on another small bite.

“Because you’re pale and sweating and you have bags under your eyes. You look like you’re about to keel over, and fuck knows you’re incapable of taking care of yourself.” MJ doesn’t sugar coat things. She doesn’t hold back to perform niceties. Usually, Peter likes the directness, but today it just hurts. 

He pulls a face and makes his best puppy dog eyes, “All-All I wanted was to talk to my friends,” He whines, throwing a fake sob into the air, “And you’re just being mean.”

MJ’s face doesn’t change. She’s obviously unamused, and the laughter bubbling to Peter’s lips dries instantly. He shuffles uncomfortably on the flat wooden lunch bench. 

“Okay,” He says instead, “I get it. Shut up, Peter. Right?” MJ nods stoically while Ned looks between the two in strange curiosity. 

“Peter,” The other boy says, “Seriously, man, are you okay?” The concern is evident and kind of touching, but Peter really doesn’t want to hear it right now. He wants to be home, curled up in bed, where nobody is going to question what he does or doesn’t eat. 

He begins to answer that yes, he really is completely and perfectly okay, but that acid reflux is building up. It’s no longer  _ only  _ nausea, now Peter can actually feel chunks of apple coming back up his throat. He’s going to be sick. 

His eyes grow wide and his hands go to cover his mouth. God, they’re in the middle of the cafeteria. The only thing more humiliating than throwing up in school is throwing up in front of the entirety Midtown High School of Science and Technology. 

Thankfully, his friends have his back. Immediately they’re guiding him out of the room. They’re not going to make it to the nurse in time, but at least this is a little bit more sequestered. They stop in front of the trashcan. There’s a moment of baited silence when they all wait. And then Peter’s gagging. 

He’s coughing and crying and vomit is burning his throat and his mouth and his nostrils. It’s his entire half-bagel breakfast, and what little of the apple he had managed to get down. Ned pats his back in his best imitation of a comforting gesture, but Peter doesn’t feel particularly comforted. 

Despite how it feels, Peter doesn’t think he’s truly heaving for very long. When he looks up, there’s a very small congregation standing on the other side of the hallway. While many of the onlookers appear nauseated, Flash Thompson is holding his phone out with a shit-eating grin. Shit, he’s recording this. So much for saving himself that small amount of humiliation. 

There’s a sour taste stuck in his throat, and it makes Peter want to gag again. His eyes are still tearing a little bit, and there’s vomit plugging up his nose. He runs a sleeve over his face, hoping that Flash didn’t see the tears. God, that’s embarrassing. He’s a superhero, for Christ’s sake. Superheroes don’t cry over a little bit of acid reflux. 

“Peter…” It’s a woman’s voice, and Peter looks up. A few feet away, he sees a tall woman with dark hair. She’s the school nurse, Peter hasn’t needed to see her since he was a freshman. She approaches, puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Come on, sweetie,” She coaxes, “Let’s get you to the health room, okay?” Flash laughs audibly now, and Peter’s face is suddenly hotter than before. He’s fifteen, not five. She’s treating him like a child. 

Peter shrugs the hand off of his shoulder, offers a close-lipped smile, and a few strained words. “I’m fine- really,”  He says, “I don’t need you to call my aunt or anything, I’m feeling great.”

But he’s not. Another wave of intense nausea is coming over him, and it’s nearly crippling. Peter stumbles where he stands. Suddenly, it’s like everything’s been changed to low definition. It’s like there’s styrofoam around his ears, muffling all sound, his mouth is full of cotton and his sight is blurred. 

Fuck, he’s getting dizzy. His knees are weak, but he uses the wall to keep himself up. MJ and Ned are supporting him on both sides, but he can’t remember them getting there. The nurse is there, in front of him and saying words that Peter can’t hear. He blinks, and he’s about to ask her what’s happening, when somebody shuts off the lights. 

And then the boy crumples to the floor. 

  
  


...

When Peter opens his eyes, he’s in a completely new place. The fluorescent lights still buzz, and there are pencil penises drawn on the plaster ceiling tiles. Offhandedly, Peter wonders how some kid was able to reach the ceiling and doodle without a teacher noticing. 

Then, Peter wonders why he’s on his back. He’s laying down during what could only possibly be the school day. It’s not soft, but it’s not hard either. Definitely not the floor then, and for a moment Peter’s glad that he’s not on the dirt and grime coated tile. 

It takes embarrassingly long for Peter to fully realize that  _ he’s lying on his back in the middle of the nurse’s office.  _ And he should probably have actual emotions about that. Only- he doesn’t. He’s far too slow to feel much anxiety. It’s the complete opposite of that morning he woke up after the spider bite incident: Instead of overwhelmingly fast reaction time, it’s like he’s lost it all now. 

It takes a few seconds for the nurse to appear within his sight lines, and even then Peter’s having trouble registering her face. 

“Peter.” She says, and he’s reminded of the multitude of times he visited this room, back when he was still Puny Parker, “How are you feeling?” 

He grimaces, “Really weird, actually,” He admits, running a hand through his hair as he sits up, “What happened?”

“Peter, have you ever had a seizure before?”

“A seizure?” What is she talking about? Peter’s an enhanced individual with a healing factor and bulletproof immune system. He doesn’t have seizures. He can’t have seizures. Or- Maybe he can. Maybe he just did. 

Well, that’s kind of terrifying. It hasn’t even been too long since his mutations occurred, there’s still so much he doesn’t know about them. Maybe he’s not only having seizures, maybe he’s sleep walking. Maybe he’s seeing things and making Spider-Man up and he’s too insane to know it. 

“You had a seizure,” The nurse says, and Peter knows she’s trying to be gentle, calming, but he’s not feeling it at all, “It lasted almost two minutes.”

Peter reaches towards his pocket for his phone, but it’s not there. Everything has been taken out of his pants. They’re wet. It looks almost like Peter…

“I have some sweatpants you can change into, but we don’t have any underwear. Sorry.” Shit, Peter actually truly has peed his pants. His mind flashes to the image of Flash holding his phone up. The bully has video of him puking, dropping into a seizure, and peeing himself. That’s just great. Peter’s head drops into his hands. His life might as well be over, he’s never going to live this down. 

“I called your aunt already. The hospital of choice in your file is actually the Avengers facility, I guess Tony Stark set something up for you there as his intern. The ambulance should be here to pick you up soon.”

Peter says nothing. He stands, walks into the bathroom, locks the door, and sits on the closed toilet seat, pointedly ignoring the soft  _ squelch  _ of his wet pants. 

This is awful. May and Tony already know. MJ and Ned must have been standing by his side when it happened. Flash has a goddamn video and everybody in the entire school is going to see the images of Peter writhing on the ground and pissing himself. Not once in his life has he been this humiliated. The discomfort of soaked jeans only serves to remind him how utterly pathetic he is. 

When he exits the small tile bathroom, somehow feeling even more embarrassed than when he first walked in, there are already EMTs speaking to the nurse. Two of them are waiting with a stretcher. 

Peter’s going to be carried out. One of the rails on the stretcher are folded, and their directing him to sit down. He bites the bottom of his lip before he obeys. A quick glance at the clock confirms that fifth period is well underway, so hopefully most students will be locked away in their classrooms. Still, kids skip, and rooms have windows, and at least somebody is going to be watching as Peter is strapped down and wheeled away.

He’s better than this. Peter doesn’t need to be secured in a stretcher. He doesn’t need a blanket over his sweatpants-clad legs. He doesn’t need an ambulance to take him to Tony Stark’s private medical facility, or wherever it is that he’s going. He’s Spider-Man, for God’s sake. He’s magnificently strong, fast, smart… And this? This is just humiliating. 

There’s some debate over the directions to the complex, and whose GPS system is the best. Peter lays, slightly inclined, and watches through the window while the EMTs start the vehicle. There are two in front -one drives and the other navigates- and one in the back. 

She’s petite- can’t be more than five feet. Her face is round and kind and she looks like she’s barely out of college. She works around him, listening to his heartbeat, taking his blood pressure, recording his temperature. Peter can’t bring himself to meet her eyes. 

Observing the impressive midday traffic, Peter’s attention shifts to the small clutter of belongings on his lap. His phone keeps lighting up, unanswered texts and calls lining up from MJ and Ned. 

He’ll be back in school by the end of the day, he’s sure. He’s had one incident, and it’s no indication of anything. It’s not as if there’s seriously something wrong with him. It’s not like he’s going to die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you say anything- No, this is not an accurate description of a normal seizure. Usually, these things have triggers and auras. When you wake up, which usually isn't so long afterwards, you'll be confused and you're reactivity and interpretation time is going to be significantly slower. Notice this is not exactly correspondent with Peter's experience here. There's a reason for that. Could it be an effect of his enhanced healing and metabolism? Maybe. Could it be that something very subtly set him off? There's a possibility. It's for me to know and you to find out. Urination is not abnormal though. Losing control of your muscles doesn't only effect your limbs, there's a lot more than that. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this. I've got to watch Spider-Man again before all my understanding of these characters falls in with fanfiction, lol. 
> 
> ALSO!! My birthday is on Saturday, so I might buy a tarantula this Sunday. Any naming ideas?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tarantula is a Brazilian salmon pink birdeater and i named it Anansi. It's just a baby for now, but it'll grow to up to 10 inches from leg to leg. It eats crickets and it likes crawling up my arm and under my sleeve and hiding in my shirt while I try to find it. I won't be able to tell the gender until it's a little bit bigger. If it's male, it'll live around five years and get to about 8 inches. If it's female, it can live up to twenty-five years and get to about ten inches (at most). 
> 
> I'm playing hockey again, and I started reading the 2000 Spider-Man comics, so I've forgotten to write occasionally. Sorry, my bad. Hope you have a good day and enjoy the chapter!

Somehow, Mr. Stark has Flash’s footage. He and Dr. Banner (yeah, THE Doctor Bruce Banner) watch it next to Peter’s bed. There’s something seriously otherworldly about watching himself hurl over a trashcan, watching himself collapse, watching himself writhe and twitch on the waxed floor as the audio suddenly erupts in chaos. 

Pointedly, he ignores the dark stain slowly growing between his legs. Mr. Stark grimaces, but doesn’t say anything. He’s conscious to Peter’s last remaining shreds of dignity, thankfully, and he does not turn around to look at the boy.

The video cuts when the security guard lifts Peter’s limp body. It ends with MJ yelling at Flash to turn off his phone, and  _ “what the fuck are you doing? He’s sick!” _ . The cameraman wondering out loud “ _ Shit, is he dead?” _

“I got the video from your school,” Mr. Stark admits, “Your friend got the entire seizure on camera, and he gave it to the administration right away. It means that we can see the entire thing, from beginning to end.”

And yeah, Peter can see that. The video doesn’t loop, but it ends with a thumbnail of Peter in an awkward position on the floor. He’s only a little bit surprised that Flash turned the video in. Everybody knows the guy’s an asshole, but he’s still a person and he can still respect emergency situations. Besides, it doesn’t mean that Flash didn’t continue to distribute the footage to classmates. He’s sure it will go viral before the day is out. 

“It’s completely normal,” Dr. Banner is watching him with something between sympathy and concern. Peter knows that he’s talking about the… incident. Which only causes his face to heat up and turn away. “You lost all control of your muscles for a short period of time, it’s usual that you would have to urinate.”

“Awesome, good to know.” It’s not as sarcastic as eager. The longer he’s here the more uncomfortable it gets. “Everything’s completely normal and I’m completely fine. Can I leave now?” 

“No,” Tony answers almost before Peter’s finished his sentence, “Not unless you want to go to a public hospital and show them that completely normal stab wound, and that completely normal bullet graze, and those completely non-spontaneous muscle spasms.” Tony- Now Tony’s being sarcastic. Between here and a hospital, this is really where Peter would much prefer to spend his time. 

He knows that he needs the help, he needs to figure out what’s up and he needs to fix it before he has another episode. It’s just that- He’s only had a single seizure, he doesn’t need two superheroes fussing over him. May is on her way, and that’s all Peter needs. They take care of each other, they always have. 

It’s difficult to remember, sometimes, that it’s more than just them now. They’re able to get medical care when they need it, and there’s always somebody watching over them to make sure that they’re both okay. It’s just- he never wanted to be a charity case. He wanted to help people, not to drain their resources. 

It doesn’t seem as though he has a choice, anyway. Yes, he can get up and leave, but there’s no way Happy would drive him back. He’d have to walk home by himself, and Mr. Stark sticks to his word. If the billionaire wants to send him to a public hospital, he’s sure it will happen. And if May thinks he should be hospitalized there would be no escape, short of physically forcing his way out. 

Peter is fifteen. Refusing medical treatment is not a choice he’s authorized to make. It’s not like he can go in as Spider-Man either. He would need to take off his mask to be tested, and he’s not ready to reveal himself just yet. 

“Peter!” May bursts into the room as if the hallway’s on fire. She’s frantic and breathless and the moment she sees him she breaks into relieved tears. Before Peter can respond, she’s on his bed, holding him tightly, checking every visible inch of his skin for injury.

“Aunt May,” Peter laughs, carding a hand through her hair in return, “Don’t worry, I’m alright.”

“You collapsed at school!” She retorts, eyes widened. She seems even more worried now than she had been coming in. Peter shouldn’t have said anything. He bows his head, and lets May fume. Nothing he can say is going to stop her from worrying, he knows that. The best thing right now is to simply let her release the emotions. 

“It was a serious seizure,” Dr. Banner says, and Peter grimaces, closely watching his aunt for any reactions, “But the scans show nothing. As far as I can tell, his behavior before it happened was normal, and he recovered quickly afterwards.” There’s something in the doctor’s voice that suggests Peter’s recovery was abnormal, but it’s got to be a good thing. It must mean that Peter’s body and mind are fine. Peter’s body and mind feel fine. 

“What does that mean?” May asks, her hand moving to grip Peter’s, “What do we do next?” 

“Nothing,” Dr. Banner shrugs, “It’s normal for people to have a seizure at least once in their life. Your family has no history of epilepsy, and we couldn’t find any abnormalities in his CT scan. Peter should go home and try to get some sleep. The less stress he’s under, the better.”

“That means no suiting up and going after supervillains,” Mr. Stark adds, “I’ll know if you do.”

Peter’s about to argue. He can still fight, if something happens and he’s not there, then it’s on him. Before he can utter a word, Mr. Stark continues.

“Imagine if you started seizing while you’re swinging from a web, or trying to protect a civilian.” Peter swallows because yeah, yeah that would be pretty bad. “Who would that help?” Mr. Stark asks, and Peter can’t meet the man’s eyes anymore. He lowers his head. 

“Nobody,” He forces out, before he looks back up, “But there’s no guarantee that it’ll happen again! You can even come with me if you want, so you’ll know if I get into trouble,” Peter coughs, “Which I won’t, since I’m feeling totally great.” 

He sits cross-legged with his back against the raised bed and smiles. It’s not a lie, he actually does feel fine. Maybe a little shook, but physically, everything seems normal. 

“Peter,” A soft voice asks, “Are you really feeling alright?” The doctor seems resigned, but it’s like he said. There’s nothing to do while Peter’s here and there’s no reason to keep him from going home. But, adults seem prone to worry. He knows that they care about him, knows that they’d be upset if anything were to happen. 

“Yeah,” Peter says, as sincerely as possible, “I’m really feeling okay now. I won’t go on patrol tonight, and I’ll let you know if anything happens, I promise.”

May and Mr. Stark sigh simultaneously, the billionair rubbing his temple as though he has a headache. May is being guided from the room by Dr. Banner. When the door shuts, leaving only Peter and his mentor, everything is suddenly silent. 

It lasts for a few good moments, the air growing thick with discomfort until-

“Why didn’t you call me last night?” Mr. Stark asks, startling the stagnant mood. 

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Peter replies, shrugging. He throws his legs over the side of the bed and prepares to stand, “It’s not like I was hurt too badly.”

“Kid, you were shot  _ and  _ stabbed. Not to mention the various other injuries I’m sure healed between then and now,” Mr. Stark looks offended and exasperated, “You could have at least let me check you out.”

“You have to go to the library for that, Mr. Stark,” Peter jokes, but the other man does not laugh, doesn’t even twitch. Peter has to admit that it wasn’t very funny anyways, “I could take care of it myself. I did take care of it myself.”

“Yeah, and who taught you first aid?” Peter says nothing. Somehow, he doesn’t think Mr. Stark would approve of  _ YouTube _ as a viable education source. The man takes Peter’s silence as an answer and shakes his head. “You could have gotten an infection, and God knows you wouldn’t tell me about it until it’s too late… Just don’t be an idiot, Peter. Talk to me next time.” 

The boy nods, and both of them know that the only reason he won’t speak is that he doesn’t want to lie to his mentor. Neither of them say anything about it, they know nothing will change. There are certain things Peter needs to do, and he has no desire to hurt others doing them. If he can take care of himself, then he doesn’t have to watch the bags growing under May’s eyes or the gray hairs increasing on Mr. Stark’s head. 

The man lets Happy drive them home, with the promise that he’ll be checking up on Peter often. It would be comforting if Peter didn’t know what a burden he is. All he seems to be able to do is make the people in his life worry more. 

He doesn’t really speak on the way home. Happy seems pleased by this development, but May keeps asking him questions and attempting to begin conversations. She asks him if he’s hungry for thai food, he shrugs even though he’s not. She tells him that she doesn’t want him to go to school tomorrow, he shrugs and says  _ ‘whatever’. _

She tells him that she’s going to call in sick to work so that she can stay home and watch over him. The heavy pit of guilt grows in his chest. He still hasn’t replied to MJ’s texts and Ned’s missed calls. Just some more examples of people who suffer because Peter can’t get his shit together. 

The moment he can, he walks straight into his room. He kicks off his shoes, pulls down his pants, and dives into his Iron Man bedspread. It’s warm and soft and exactly what Peter needs. He doesn’t care about the dried stain on his pillow from the night before, doesn’t care that it’s barely even dinnertime yet. He’s asleep almost before his eyes even close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll probably start getting really into it next chapter. 
> 
> Don't forget to comment or send me messages. I always tell you guys how much I love talking to you, and I really do.
> 
> I'm feeling sucky and I'm gonna go to sleep in the middle of the day. Anyways, see you all next week.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> Hockey's really picked up in the past few weeks. In the last three days alone I've played maybe 5 hours and it's fucking intense. I've got another practice after school today, and I'll find out whether they're rostering me on JV or varsity (or both) so that's just more energy. I'm seriously exhausted, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop :)
> 
> That said, I've been thinking about the weekly update schedule and wondering if I should keep it the way it is. With Art of Pain I could usually update every day, but that was before school began. Here, I'm trying to write you slightly longer chapters between every-day school stresses. I'm worried that it might be too long though. Are you guys able to keep up with the story when I just post every week? Let me know how you'll feel and I'll try to make some sort of accommodation if it's necessary
> 
> Enjoy the chapter, and don't forget to let me know what you think in the comments or my tumblr pm

Peter can’t breathe. He’s trying, he’s trying so, so hard, but every inhale fills his lungs with less oxygen. He struggles against the darkness, but he can’t open his eyes. He can’t move, he can’t  _ breathe. _ He’s suffocating, and the worst part is that he can’t possibly call for help. 

The Iron Man blanket is a familiar warmth over his body. Generally, it’s comforting, but now the added weight is holding him down. It’s like he’s on the bottom of the ocean floor. He can’t see, can’t move, can’t breath. Can’t make a sound besides desperate attempts to suck air into his hollow chest. 

Peter’s fists curl into the mattress as if he can pull himself back up to the surface, but nothing helps to relieve the growing pressure in his chest. He can’t breathe and he can’t move and it’s becoming harder and harder to think about anything else. 

He knows, rationally, that he’s in his bedroom, but the inability to move his arms and legs convinces him that he’s not. He’s on a table, tied down, waiting to be tortured or experimented on, or who knows what. The impossibly large ball in his throat grows, as he can feel wet tears falling down the sides of his face. 

It’s unnaturally dark for an apartment in Queens, and Peter really, really hopes his eyes are closed, because the alternative is that he actually truly can’t see. Maybe he’s blind. Maybe whatever fucked up in his brain and caused him to pass out and seize in front of all his classmates also led to permanent optic damage. 

Shit, that would suck. It would suck almost as much as slowly suffocating to death in his bedroom. 

But not quite as much. The suffocation is definitely still worse. 

“Peter?” Aunt May’s voice is distant and echoing, like he’s hearing it through the other side of a closed window. He wants to answer her, to cry and scream for help, but nothing besides desperate wheezing escapes his mouth. 

There’s no sound after that, and for a moment, Peter is afraid she’s left. He can’t call out to her. He’s going to die here alone and it’s utterly terrifying. He doesn’t know if he’s locked his bedroom door, but if he has there’s no way for May to get to him. 

But then she’s talking to him again, and while the words “Oh my God, Peter! What’s happening? Peter! Peter, can you hear me!?” aren’t exactly reassuring, at least he knows he’s not alone anymore. 

There are hands on him, checking his temperature, turning his body onto its side. It’s not ideal, but his lungs suddenly open just a little bit more and he finds himself able to whimper. It makes him feel pitiful, he can’t do much but cry and it makes him feel like a child. Superheroes don’t cry. Adults don’t cry. He’s fifteen for God’s sake, and he’s panicking over a little bit of breathing trouble. 

“I’ll be right back, baby, I promise,” Aunt May says, from somewhere in front of him. He tries to reach out, but he can’t. He doesn’t have the energy, doesn’t have the ability, can’t see her through this all-encompassing darkness. He doesn’t want her to leave. She’s just found him, and he’s so scared. If she leaves, who knows what will happen. He’s going to die the moment she steps out of the room, he knows it. He knows he’s going to pass out at some point, and these may very well be his last moments with her. 

He just wants her to stay. If she sits by his side, everything will be okay. He can hold onto her, she can pull him up. He has to, he can’t leave her. 

“It’s okay, Peter! It’s okay! Just take deep breaths, like you used to do with me. Just focus on your breathing.” He loses contact with her, can’t sense where she is anymore. It’s easier said than done, if he could take deep breaths they wouldn’t even be in this miserable situation. 

Suddenly, there’s something small being nudged into his mouth and May tells him to inhale slowly. Although it’s not very good, he does his best. The bitter taste of medication fills his mouth while his aunt depresses the inhaler. 

It takes three puffs, but Peter is coughing now, instead of just wheezing. May props him into a seated position with a pillow, his body pliant in her hands. 

Peter hasn’t had an asthma attack since he was almost thirteen. He thought it was over, that the spider bite had somehow cured him. But even then, it had never been this bad and it had never come on so suddenly. It’s not getting any better, and as hard as Peter’s trying to remain calm, he can feel his heart thumping in his chest. Can hear the voice in his head whispering that he’s going to die, that he needs to act before it’s too late. 

But May is on the phone now. Peter doesn’t have the energy to decipher her words, but she’s yelling, and she’s scared. He knows that he should feel guilty for worrying her yet again, but all he can think about is the tightness in his own chest and the narrowness of his throat. 

She doesn’t hang up until there’s somebody knocking on the door. Suddenly, the apartment is flooded with paramedics and he can’t see his aunt anymore through the blue uniforms. They’re lifting him onto a stretcher, running him down the stairs and into the back of the awaiting vehicle, all the while yelling words that Peter has trouble understanding. 

“Push one of epinephrine!” One woman’s voice yells, directly besides his ear, before there’s a pin-prick stab in his arm. Nothing happens. Nothing gets clearer, or brighter, or more stable. He’s still gasping like a fish out of water, and it just seems to be getting worse. 

There’s another injection, or two, or three, and there’s a mask on his face, but Peter’s returned to wheezing. He can’t speak and his fists go back to clenching and unclenching. It’s all he can do, all the power he has left over his own situation. But then there’s something soft in his hand, and it refuses to let the boy go. 

“We need to intubate! His consciousness is deteriorating too quickly!”

“But he’s still awake!” 

“You want to wait for him to stop breathing first?”

“Ma’am, step back. He’s too tired to keep this up on his own, he’s going to go into respiratory failure,” Commands a voice, and the soft warmth leaves his hand. 

“Sorry, kid,” The voice is there again, “This ain’t gonna be very pleasant, but you’re not responding to our sedatives.”

And suddenly he’s choking. It had been bad before, but this is truly and completely suffocating. There’s something being forced into his mouth and down his throat and God he can’t breath at all anymore. He can’t breath and he’s going to die and he won’t even get to say goodbye or apologize for the trauma he knows he’s causing May right now. 

“Fuck, is there anything else we can give this kid? His vitals are skyrocketing, this has got to be torture.” Peter can’t hear a response before the guy speaks again, “I don’t care what we have to do, he’s a kid.” 

“Benzos,” A female voice chimes in, “He’s absorbing our drugs too fast, you have to give him double.”

There’s another needle injecting some unknown chemical into his body, and Peter can’t fist his hands anymore. The muscles loosen without his command, but he’s suddenly too tired for the fear. 

He can’t breathe, and he knows he’s falling back into unconsciousness, and that can’t possibly be a good thing. But he can’t fight it either, and so there’s no option but to let it wash over him. The world doesn’t need to go black this time, it already is. 

  
  


…

“I’m telling you, it’s not asthma.”

May’s voice filters through Peter’s hazy consciousness. He can feel his heavy eyelids attempting to stay open, but even when he can keep them peeled for more than a millisecond, the world is still bathed in darkness. There are pockets of light now though, and Peter can see two darker figures in front of him. 

They waver and they shift, but the figures don’t really move. They stay in fixed spots in his vision. One of them is May, he thinks. He’d recognized her voice upon waking, and it doesn’t make sense that she would leave so soon. The other could be truly anybody, all Peter can make of them is a blurry shadow. 

“Ma’am, I’m telling you there is no other reasonable explanation. Sometimes asthmatics have long periods without any trouble, but the asthma is still there. Granted, it is a little strange that his asthma got so much worse so suddenly. He probably already had some sort of minor infection in his lungs.” Peter assumes the deeper voice belongs to a doctor. Neither adult seems to notice that he’s awake.

“Right, and how many signs of infection did you find when you suctioned?” May sounds angry, aggravated. Peter opens his mouth to speak, to tell them he hasn’t had asthma since he was fourteen, and he hasn’t had an attack since he was around twelve, but not even the slightest sound escapes. 

It’s like there’s something blocking his voice. When he moves, he becomes painfully aware of a foreign object taped to the side of his lips. It stretches his skin uncomfortably, filling his mouth. Peter can run his tongue over it, and it’s not thick, but it keeps going and going and it doesn’t end. 

It’s not the physical sensation so much as the thought of something going so far down his throat that he can’t even whimper that makes him nauseous. There is something  _ inside  _ of him, something invading his body, and he can’t even gag without feeling like he’s going to choke. 

His heart rate must be rising, because in a moment the doctor’s shadow is larger and closer, the echoing voice surrounding him like a bubble. 

“Peter, I need you to calm down. You’re in the hospital, you had an asthma attack, but you’re okay now. There’s a tube in your mouth right now to help you breath, so you can’t talk.”

And that makes sense, and at least he knows what’s happening now, but there’s  _ a tube down his throat _ and that means he can’t  _ breath _ on his own. Peter tries to calm himself, he really does, but nothing works. He can’t perform the exercise without the ability to work his own lungs, so he closes his eyes (not that it makes things much darker) and tries to gather himself together. 

The only thing he can try to do is take inventory of the situation. Mr. Stark had once told him to make a list of good things and bad things in his head.  _ ‘Analyze the situation. Try not to be emotional when you figure everything out, kid. Be emotional after, when you’ve already dealt with the issue.’ _

And so, that’s what he does. He keeps his eyes closed to the dark shadows that make up his aunt and his doctor, and he starts with the bad things: 

 

1- He almost suffocated earlier

2- He’s not breathing by himself 

3- He has no idea why he’s so sick

4- He had a seizure earlier in the day (or was that yesterday?)

5- May has to be worried out of her mind 

6- His enhanced metabolism and immune system aren’t taking care of this for him

7- There’s a tube down his throat

8- He’s in the hospital

 

If he were able to, Peter would pull in a deep breath and convert it into a deeper sigh. Instead, he finds himself gagging on the goddamn endotracheal tube again. 

That’s another thing he should add to the list, choking every five seconds isn’t a very nice experience either. Peter knows. But he also knows that if he focuses on only the bad things, it’s only going to send him deeper into a panic. 

Good things then, things he can be grateful for:

 

1- He’s in a hospital, they’ll take care of it 

2- May is by his side

3- This is happening to him, and, thankfully, not to anyone else

4- He knows how to deal with asthma, if that’s what this is

5- His enhanced metabolism and immune system  _ will _ take care of this for him

6- If Mr. Stark probably hasn’t heard about this yet, he won’t need to

7- This is just a fluke, as was the seizure. Nothing to worry about

8- Everything is fine, he’s going to be fine

 

Okay. There truly is nothing to be concerned about here. Peter knows he’s going to be fine, he’s always fine. This is just a small setback, by tomorrow he knows he’ll be good-as-new. May is going to worry, and yeah, it’s a tiny bit spooky, but Peter knows, rationally, this isn’t as bad as he’s making it out to be in his head. 

Everybody has a seizure at some point in their lives, and that’s not a big deal. Having an asthma attack doesn’t mean anything either. People are in hospitals all the time, and people are intubated all the time. 

He’s probably overreacting, letting his mind run away on a crazy whim when there truly is nothing wrong. He’s just being paranoid and childish. Because there can’t be anything wrong with him - not really. 

There are some advantages of being bitten by a freaking radioactive spider, and his health is one of them. Peter knows he’s sick right now, and that’s not something he can really lie about, but these things only last so long. Soon enough, he will have flushed whatever bug he has out of his system, and everything will return to normal.

For some reason, Peter hesitates. The thought isn’t as confident as it had been before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter may act like these things are normal, but they absolutely ARE NOT (for the most part). If you're experiencing spontaneous asthmatic episodes or seizures, see a doctor immediately. Please, please, please take care of yourselves, you're all special and important. If you ever have symptoms that disrupt aspects of your life for more than a 24 hour period, make sure to check it out (but not on WebMD because if you look up UTI symptoms it'll probably claim you have stomach cancer or something). 
> 
> Please tell me what you think! I hope this is something you can all enjoy, and I hope you know that this illness (or whatever it is) is about to get really serious. 
> 
> Don't forget to comment on this story and message me at repti-fandom-person.tumblr.com. I may not always reply to the comments, but I do read them all and it usually makes my day a lot better.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I'm really not going to make excuses. This is a long time in coming, and I'm sorry to have made you wait. On the brighter side, I've already started the next chapter and I promise you that I'm not giving up on this work. I've just been crazy busy. You can still come talk to me, always. 
> 
> I love you guys, and I hope you enjoy the chapter

“You’re doing real good, Petey,” The doctor says, and Peter already finds himself aggravated at the nickname

The second time he opens his eyes, he can see colors. They’re not bright, they’re dark and dull and ugly, but he can see them and that’s good enough for him. He’s not going to be able to patrol for at least a week, if he has any sense of self-preservation. 

“Alright Son, I’m going to ask you some questions. I want you to answer either by holding up fingers or nodding or shaking your head, okay?” Peter nods immediately, the sooner he can be done with this the better. This other man insists on treating him like a child, and it’s really the last thing Peter needs right now. 

What he needs is for somebody to tell him exactly what’s happening. He needs the factual information explained to him on a deeper level than one would provide for a fifth grader. If he has the basis, maybe he can figure out what the next step is. As it is, he barely has enough to understand what’s happening right now. 

“Is your name Peter Parker?” The doctor asks, and Peter isn’t sure if he rolls his eyes or not before he nods. If he does, the man takes no notice.

“Do you know where you are, Pete?” Another nod, “You’re at Metro General Hospital, do you remember why?” This is getting repetitive, and Peter’s senses somehow narrow into the mechanical clock arduously ticking on the wall, every second stretching into an impossible eternity. The blurry shape of Aunt May leaves Peter in the room with his physician. 

Peter nods when he’s asked if his aunt takes care of him, shakes his head when he’s asked if he can see alright. 

When the doctor asks how much pain Peter is experiencing in his chest and throat, he pointedly holds up two closed fists. It’s not the complete truth, but on Peter’s scale of painful experiences, it is still fairly low. He’ll take the soreness in his neck and tightness under his ribs over being beaten to a pulp by some super-asshole any day. 

“You know, Petey,” The doctor says, “You don’t need to lie about anything here. The more honest you are with me, the sooner we can get you home, okay?” Peter nods. “So let’s try again. On a scale from one to ten, one being not at all and ten being excruciating, how much pain do you feel?” 

This time, Peter holds up two fingers on his left hand in a mock peace-sign. If this guy wants to get down to the nitty-gritty, Peter can admit that he’s more uncomfortable than anything else. His throat is sore, there’s a pounding behind his eyes, and the tube secured down his throat is obnoxiously obvious, but that’s as bad as it gets. The doctor audibly sighs, obviously unconvinced. It’s not Peter’s job to argue with medical personnel who don’t believe in their own patient’s honesty, so they move on. 

“Have you been smoking, son? Drinking any alcohol? Taking any drugs?” When Peter shakes his head in denial, the doctor makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat, “We have your blood in the lab, Peter. I don’t have to tell your aunt if you’re honest, you just need to tell me the truth.” 

When Peter doesn’t reply, the man sighs, “Why don’t you get some rest, son? We can try again when you wake up, maybe your head will be a little more clear.”

When he stands to leave, Peter couldn’t be any more grateful. It’s not that he doesn’t respect the doctor. It must be a difficult profession, and there must be kids who come in and lie about their unlawful activity all the time. It makes sense that the guy won’t trust yet another teenager with an inexplicably sudden medical emergency. 

Peter doesn’t blame him, not really. He would just prefer a system of mutual respect. 

He tries to huff, allowing himself to sink further into the stiff mattress behind him when the action becomes caught in his throat. 

The sun filters through Peter’s damaged sight in its full glory, making the passage of time obnoxiously obvious. The attack must have occurred early in the night, and morning is now clearly well underway. 

He’s probably already missing school now, and he has a Spanish test second period. One he had actually studied for, no less. There’s a blurry round shape on the wall that Peter imagines is a clock, but he can’t get a confident reading from it. The same goes for the cell-phone Aunt May left plugged in by his bedside. It chimes every few minutes, but there’s no way he’ll be able to read the text on such a small screen. 

In a word- it sucks. It’s miserable, and gross, and all Peter wants to do is get this stupid plastic tube out of his annoying throat and take a long, warm shower. On the brighter side, he won’t have to deal with the backlash from Flash’s home video for a few days. Maybe by then it will have already blown over. However unlikely, Peter is unwilling to forget that the possibility does exist. 

When Aunt May comes back into the room a minute later, her concerned words do nothing to cheer him up. 

“I just got off the phone with Tony Stark,” She tells him, running a hand through her soft hair, “We’re taking you back to the Avengers Compound, your doctor here keeps trying to convince me that you’re on some sort of drug or another. It’s the only explanation they’re offering for any of this. They’re refusing to even consider anything else.”

She sighs, falling heavily into the chair next to him and reaching out to grasp his hand. “You’re not taking anything, are you?” She asks hesitantly. Peter widens his eyes and shakes his head harshly, his best attempt to convey  _ no, of course not _ without any actual words. May nods besides him, that hand returning to the back of her head. 

“I trust you,” She says, and Peter can hear the hint of something else behind her words that makes him feel inexplicably guilty. He’s suddenly painfully aware of every single time he lied to his aunt in order to keep Spider-Man a secret. Unlike the doctor, May has every reason to distrust him. He’s disobeyed her and deceived her more times than either of them can count. And it’s not okay. 

There is no silence, but the lack of communication between the two Parkers is made even more overbearing by the steady hissing and buzzing of machinery behind them. Peter can only assume that his aunt is thinking about the same things he is, it used to be so easy for him to read her mind. 

“We’re just waiting for a transport team,” Is what May finally says, after minutes of nothing, “Then we can get you to somebody who’s actually competent. Okay?” 

Peter nods. Okay. 

  
  


…

Five hours after the nurse came in to tell May their transport would be ready within thirty minutes, Peter is finally being wheeled out of the emergency room. 

On the bright side, that means he’s already been extubated and had ample time to readjust to the feeling of breathing on his own. By the time they roll him backwards into the NEMT van, little remains from the previous night’s experience besides a nasal cannula and very mildly blurry eyesight. 

May, seated besides him in the van, snoozes softly. She hasn’t slept since bringing Peter to the hospital but she looks so peaceful here, snoring gently. Her face is soft in a way he hasn’t seen it since the day he came home fully suited as Spider-Man. The lines and wrinkles melt into the soft curve of skin over a round face. 

Peter wants to reach out, to touch this beautifully familiar vision of love and family. He doesn’t. The risk of waking her simply would not be worth it. Instead, he looks towards the small device in his hand. If he squints now, he can make out the default text on his phone. It’s like he’s an old man, going into his settings to turn the character size up to the maximum.

It doesn’t take long for Peter to insure all two of his friends that he’s alright. They both take it with a grain of salt, he’s sure. Anybody who knows him well enough would doubt his word when it comes to his own well being. He’s the type of person to cry at a scraped knee to anybody willing to listen and then to shrug off a stab wound. He knows it and they know it. 

So he sends off a couple of reassurances, a couple of happy emojis, and pulls up the local crime reports. There’s so much action Peter’s missed in Queens. He counts multiple instances of assault, battery, robbery, and theft. Everything on the list could have been avoided, had Spider-Man been following his normal routine of crime-fighting.

He knows, rationally, that there’s far too much crime in his city for him to stop it all. In fact, when it boils down, Peter’s extracurriculars barely make a dent in the criminal activity of Queens. He barely reaches a fraction of it on a good night, while people like the Daredevil in Hell’s Kitchen seem to take down drug rings on a nightly basis. Still, Peter knows better than to devalue the few people he does manage to help. 

He’s overwhelmingly privileged to help his home in any way. Nights like this, where he is incapacitated and unable to interrupt petty criminals from stealing purses in back alleyways, ensure he’s aware of how few people get to do what he can.

It might just be the enlarged font, but the list seems to scroll on forever. 

They’re a long ways out of the city when Peter’s fingers spasm, dropping his smartphone to the vehicle floor with an obnoxiously loud bang. He groans in frustration, but May barely shifts in her sleep and nobody on the transport team makes a move to pick it up for him. 

That’s fine, Peter decides, he’s read enough anyways. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really weird for me to write something without as much action. This story relies more on the things going on inside Peter's head, or rather, inside Peter's body and immune system. I keep worrying that the chapters are coming out as boring, and you guys should definitely let me know if they are. I was tempted to scrap this chapter and rewrite it, but Freya convinced me that it wasn't awful, so here we are. 
> 
> You should all thank Freya for editing and reassuring me all the time, by the way. She's awesome and she keeps me writing, so she definitely deserves a shoutout. 
> 
> I say that Peter is the type of person to cry at scraped knee and shrug off a stab wound because I'm that person. I got hit pretty hard with the puck once, and I swore up and down to anybody who would listen that the bruise on my collar bone was actually a fractured clavicle. Needless to say, it wasn't. Still hurt like a motherfucker though. I later had a major 90 minute surgery and came out of it immediately tired of taking my pain meds... 
> 
> Anyways, more development next chapter, which will come out fuck knows when...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Right? It's been forever since I posted and I sincerely apologize for that. 
> 
> I hope this chapter makes up for it, I know it's been a while, so... umm... yeah. 
> 
> Also, I want you to know that I do read your comments. Every single one. I get my email notifications when you give me kudos or comments, and it always makes my day. I know I'm not good at expressing it, but it really does mean a lot to me. If you'd like me to, i can try to reply to comments more often. I just hope you know how much i love you guys.

It turns out that Mr. Stark is out of town. He’s out of the state, actually, out of the country. All the way on the opposite side of the world in Malaysia. Peter is told that the billionaire left late for some sort of convention after the seizure incident, and is leaving early because of the breathing incident. 

He hates it. He’s become a definition of a burden to the man who’s given him everything. Peter knows that. He knows he doesn’t deserve to have people like Tony Stark or Aunt May in his life and that he’s ruining them right now by behaving the way he is. He needs to get better, and then he needs to grow up so that he can start taking care of himself. 

He's already fifteen. That's old enough, in many cultures, to be considered an adult man. Many of his classmates already drive to their real jobs and pay for their own lunches with their own money. Peter is, to quote the cinematic masterpiece  _ Monster House, _ practically a grown-up, although he sometimes doubts that May and Mr. Stark will ever see him as anything more than a child. 

It’s difficult not to pout, but stewing in self-pity does absolutely nothing to improve the aggravation that Peter is currently experiencing. At least Dr. Banner seems to think he’s in the clear for now, and Peter is allowed to go through the compound as he chooses. In theory. In practice, Aunt May will probably never let him out of her sight again. 

Peter has never  _ actually  _ been in his room at the Avengers compound before. He had known of its existence, but it had always been more fantastical to him. It was there, but not really. Like the view from the torch on the statue of liberty or a broadway show - it had been something Peter would have enjoyed seeing, and something that would have been technically accessible, but something he would probably have never gone and experienced. 

His room is really, really cool. It’s larger than the apartment he shares with his aunt. It’s like he’s staying in some sort of five star hotel. There’s a bathroom complete with a full shower, a jacuzzi bath, twenty types of soap, and its own laundry shoot.  There’s a walk-in closet already stocked with his size in jeans, shirts, expensive sneakers, and funny socks. An entire section has been devoted to a workshop. 

That has to be Peter’s favorite part, like his own personal dreamland. It probably has better supplies than his school: lasers, blades, Stark tech that has so many settings Peter wouldn’t know what to do with them all.

The room opens into a large hallway, home to two of the Avengers. Peter thinks he sees glimpses of Vision, although he can’t say for sure. 

In the common area, there’s a window overlooking a large empty hanger. Happy had mentioned something about Mr. Stark having the quinjet, and Peter is beyond excited to see the thing land. He hadn’t had a chance to see it in Germany, and the thought of seeing the massive airship in motion nearly sends a shiver down his spine. 

When Peter turns back from the window, Black Widow is seated, feet up on one of the coffee tables, flipping through a magazine with a title in a language that Peter can’t even pretend to place. He has no idea when she got there. She hadn’t made a sound coming in, and even now with his enhanced hearing he can barely hear the pages rustle as she flips through them. She’s like a ghost, and part of Peter is afraid that if he looks away he’ll somehow forget she was ever there. 

He doesn’t realize that he’s staring until Natasha Romanoff’s tongue darts out to lick her index finger and she turns the page, eyebrow raised as if in some sort of amusement. Her eyes continue to travel over the page, but Peter can tell that the gesture was meant for him. He clears his throat awkwardly. 

“H-Hi…” He starts but he doesn’t know what to call her. Ms. Romanoff? Natasha? Black Widow?

“Mr. Parker,” She nods curtly, although she continues to read. Peter would question how she already knows his name, but he decides better of it. Something in her voice suggests that she knows everything. She is, after all, a world class spy. And an assassin. Peter makes a mental note to never get on her bad side. Not that he would have anyways, but reminders have never hurt before. 

She must have finished her article, because Ms. Romanoff is on her feet not a moment before the doors open to Dr. Banner conversing with May. Peter’s aunt is smiling as she speaks animatedly towards the world-renowned scientist. They’re cheerful talk ends abruptly when Dr. Banner notices the woman who waits for him. 

A silent affinity exists between the two heroes, and, although he was here before any of them, he suddenly feels like an intruder to some sort of reticent, confidential discussion. His room is just down the hall, and there is a very real, very strong impulse to retreat and hide in his brand new quarters as the silence stretches. 

“How are you feeling, Peter?” Dr. Banner asks, the peculiar conversation with the assassin finished as though its awkward tension had not washed over the room just moments before. 

“Alright,” Peter admits. Although he is sure the two heroes have already expressed a great deal between themselves, he can tell there is more that needs to be said in private. So, he keeps his answer brief, “More or less the same as I felt an hour ago.”

“Good,” Dr. Banner nods, although Peter can tell that he doesn’t have the man’s full attention, “Nat and I have to talk for a minute, we’ll just be in the other room if you need anything.”

The man sounds sincere, like he means what he says, but something in Ms. Romanoff’s steely blue eyes acts as a deterrent. They have something urgent to discuss, her gaze implies, Peter is not to interrupt unless it is absolutely necessary. 

He’s alright with that, this entire illness has been a one -maybe two- time occurance, he’s sure. The entire asthma thing was probably nothing more than an aftershock of the seizure thing. 

May’s eyes trail after the departing heroes, seemingly a little bit less confident. Her fingers tap against the back of the couch she’s leaning on. When the thud and click of a door closing reaches their side of the room, May’s frown turns to Peter. 

“Who’s that woman you were talking to?” She demands more than she asks. It’s been a little while already, but May still acts suspicious towards anybody and everybody who might know about his double life as Spider-Man. Hell, when she found out that Ned was involved, she grilled and threatened him for hours, until the boy considered retiring from his Guy In The Chair duties altogether. 

Peter smiles, fingers crossed that it’s at least somewhat assuring, “May, that’s Natasha Romanoff,” He says, only a little bit disappointed at the blank face meeting him, “You know, Black Widow?” 

His grin grows at the silent  _ ‘oh’  _ forming between May’s lips, but it falters as her brow furrows again, “Why is she blonde?” 

“I don’t know, I think she just likes to change her hair sometimes,” Peter avoids mentioning her being one of the world’s top spies, even though he’s sure she already knows. Hearing itt would likely only make his aunt more anxious and, despite how well she hides it, Peter knows better than anyone that the woman needs no help in that department.

She nods, checking something on her phone as she goes to join him on one of the many couches. 

“If nothing else,” She tells him, “I’m glad you have people like Dr. Banner taking care of you. It’s the least Stark can do after all of this.”

And, as much as Peter would like to defend his mentor against May’s constant criticism, he knows better than to get her started on the subject. Just like she knows better than to push it, to Peter’s appreciation. They’ve had ‘discussions’ on Tony Stark’s integrity and virtue before, always followed by a few hours of awkward or tense emotions. 

If not for the brief moment of silence where both aunt and nephew attempt to think of a possible way to change the subject, Peter probably would not hear it. There’s a faint mechanical  _ whir, _ like that of a miniscule motor. He turns and makes a mad dash towards the window, just in time to see a large metal vessel hovering in the sky. 

It descends beautifully, smoothly. For a moment, Peter imagines riding in it. Like sailing through still water, or floating on Aladdin's magic carpet.

The rotors on the wings rotate angles as the airship comes down, stirring up the small amount of dust below. Peter is practically glued to the window until the Quinjet lands. 

Mr. Stark is strolling through the door only a minute later. The wide grin he greets Peter with grows cautious upon seeing May. He approaches her with both palms faced outward in a cordial gesture, but May’s arms remain crossed, her face hard. 

“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been waiting here?” She demands, stepping forward.

“Thirty hours less than you would have had I been anyone else,” He answers easily, sarcasm coloring his next words, “It takes more than a few minutes to fly from the complete opposite side of the world.”

May, as expected, responds with irritation. She reminds him that there is nothing to joke about in a less than friendly way. Mr. Stark’s smile becomes slightly more forced, and Peter prepares to interject. 

At first, he thinks that the twitch in his fingers is simply nervous energy. After all, Peter is about to put himself between to irritated grown-ups. But then, he finds himself unable to relax the offending digits. A moment later, the spasm spreads to his hand and suddenly, his fist is clenching against his will. 

Peter considers not saying anything. He feels a similar sensation in his calves whenever he patrols without stretching properly beforehand. When the pain turns sharp and races like hot blood through Peter’s forearm and bicep, he changes his mind. 

“M-Mr. Stark? Aunt May?” Peter’s muscles have tightened so much that he can barely move his arm. His shoulder has begun twitching, and a brief flash of fear races through his chest as he wonders what would happen if this strange episode were to spread to his neck, or contract his heart. 

Fortunately, there are two adults by his side within the instant, and Peter does not reject their help. 

“Peter-”

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s going on?”

“Is it-” 

“Why are you holding your arm like that?”

“Let me see.”

Mr. Stark takes his hand and tries to uncurl the shaking fingers with little success. Even with his enhanced strength, Peter’s attempts to move his arm result in little more than a twitch. It’s like he’s been encased in solid Vibranium, and no matter how much he exerts himself, he is unable to lift the weight. 

Before long, Mr. Stark has given up on opening the rogue fist. He yells for Dr. Banner while Peter strains, and paints, and stares at the small rivulets of blood that manage to squeeze through the side of his fingers and drip to the ground. The muscles have actually begun to ball up under the skin, and Peter can do little but gape and wonder if it’s possible for them to burst out. 

But then Dr. Banner is there, and he’s trying pressure points, and measuring heart rates and oxygen. 

He says something, but Peter can barely hear. Although the spasm has not travelled any further than the shoulder, Peter can hardly feel anything other than the white-hot pain. His eyes are tearing up without his control, and his attempts to focus on anything outside of his body are only giving him a headache. His balance is failing, and knowing that trying to sit will likely only result in falling and injury, Peter allows himself to drop to his knees.

Within seconds, Dr. Banner is in front of him again with a handful of needles. He says something about “TPI,” and “Deactivating trigger points,” and then there are a series of pinpricks from his shoulder to his wrist. 

After that, it takes only a minute for the pain to clear up. Peter is left on the ground, blinking the tears and blurriness out of his vision as his arm loosens and hangs limp at his side. There are small half-moon punctures where his fist had clenched, surprisingly deep for simple fingernail scratches. 

By the time he looks up again, May is descending on him like she’d just watched him dying, which, Peter realizes, might have been what she thought was happening. He’s left to comfort her and insist that “Really, I’m fine Aunt May, it doesn’t even really hurt now.”

Her hand on the back of his head pushes him toward her chest and he settles into her warmth, actually quite content. The voices behind them ruin the illusion of peace before it’s even fully formed.

“Let’s get him prepped for a CT,” Dr. Banner suggests, “I think it’s in his brain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment. Kudos. Subscribe because who knows when I'll post the next one. 
> 
> You can even follow me on tumblr if you want. Or just come talk to me. repti-fandom-person.tumblr.com. I love you guys

**Author's Note:**

> Repti-fandom-person on tumblr and marxeism on practically everything else. 
> 
> Come talk to me.


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